“I have neither the time nor the desire to listen to the details of your wanton bargains with humans,” Ombrienne said dismissively. The birch bark bowl sprouted legs and scuttled away, as if it, too, were afraid of the queen’s temper.
“What about this magic you keep talking about?” asked Grit. “You’ve spent my entire life telling me my power is too weak, I need to be protected, I shouldn’t strain myself . . . and now you’re terrified of me being out of your control! I do have power, I can handle myself—”
“Because you were doing so well when the Royal Guard rescued you from the clutches of that metal monster.”
Grit flushed.
“Now listen to me, child,” continued the queen. “You have a responsibility to your people. The royal magic that flows through your veins is the only thing that will keep the Arboretum a safe haven for our kind after I am gone.” Ombrienne circled Grit as she spoke, the ends of her auburn hair curling and uncurling in an unnatural breeze. “You will not jeopardize this community again with your selfishness.”
Splinters of wood began ripping themselves apart from the tree trunk floor and spinning around her, tearing countless little gouges beneath their feet.
“You will not experiment with your magic until I have given express permission for you to do so.”
The splinters circled closer around Grit, weaving in and out, latching on to one another in an intricate lacework.
“And until you are queen, you will never. Leave this castle. Again.”
The pieces of interwoven wood spun closer and closer, fitting together like puzzle pieces to form a circle around Grit. The sides built up and up, a basketlike prison, until Grit could no longer see her mother’s face in front of her.
“NO.”
The word came from deep inside of Grit, forcing its way out of her lips and into the world, a sharp, tangible thing. The cage stopped spinning and started to smoke, little red embers lighting up the ends of the splinters, and with a great poof, it vaporized in a cloud of ash.
Grit stood in the center of the ring of ashes, breathing hard. Ombrienne stared at her daughter as if she had never seen her before.
Suddenly, a great buzzing filled the air, like a hundred hornets taking flight at once. The Great Willow’s branches filled with flickering faerie light. The noise was hornets, summoned into attack formation by some threat to the Arboretum. They buzzed around the Great Willow, dodging nervous faeries. Grit panicked for a moment, thinking she had somehow caused more destruction than she’d intended, but then the chatter of the other faeries surrounded her.
“Queen Ombrienne!”
“Your Highness, we’re sorry to interrupt, but—”
“Humans! At the North Gate!”
“They’ve got saws!”
“And shovels!”
“There’re so many of them!”
“What do we do?”
Queen Ombrienne collected herself in an instant, her face slipping back into its usual smooth mask.
“The Royal Guard and I will go,” she said. “Coniferus, gather the lamplighters. Sprout Mother Rutabella, take your charges underground and stay close to the castle; the Willow is bound to move again shortly. The rest of you, to your posts!”
Queen Ombrienne rose up into the air with the hornets. The crickets skittered down the Great Willow’s branches to follow her along the ground.
“Grettifrida?” Ombrienne paused as her beechnut armor attached itself to her chest. “Stay here . . . please.” She sped off without waiting for an answer.
The ashy remains of Grit’s wooden prison drifted away in the crisp autumn breeze, but she was still trapped up there in the Willow.
Just then a bristly green head poked out from behind a thick silver branch. “Psst, Grit!”
“Bressel?!” Grit raced to her friend and embraced her in a bone-crushing hug. “I am so glad to see you!”
“Oh, me, too!” said Bressel, her bushy green eyebrows scrunching together. “But I’m still mad at you for leaving me like you did!”
“Can you be mad at me later?” implored Grit. “What’s going on at the North Gate?”
“Do you want me to tell you, or do you want me to show you?” asked Bressel.
Grit took a step back. “Who are you and what have you done with my old friend Bressel?”
“Replaced her with a browbeaten faerie who has realized that you always do what you want anyway. Now hop on before someone notices us!”
Grit clambered onto Bressel’s back and sneezed as faerie dust flew in her face when Bressel took flight.
“Did you get heavier in the human world?” Bressel grunted under Grit’s weight.
“Did I mention you’re my favorite faerie in Skemantis?” Grit nuzzled Bressel’s shoulder affectionately and grinned. They were off.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today you are witnessing history in the making!” Titus Archer’s voice echoed over the sounds of digging as a handful of men completed a two-foot-deep trench that ran right up against the North Gate. He addressed a small crowd of important-looking businessmen and a few scribbling journalists. One of them set up a cumbersome-looking camera. “With the trial installation of Titus Industries’ new Hyperiopower in Skemantis’s legendary theater district, we are ushering in a new age of modern technology and convenience! My competitors know very well that we must rely on the use of limited resources to produce electricity. How much coal must be burned to power a fine city such as this? But the Hyperion is a generator with infinite capabilities. Hyperiopower can produce electricity for the public without reliance on coal, gas, or even water—”
“No, just the lives of innocent faeries,” snarled Grit under her breath. She and Bressel watched from the middling branches of a nearby holly tree, well hidden from hornets or faeries patrolling the skies high above.
Archer droned on about the development of the modern age and the tide of progress, but Grit and Bressel were hardly listening. They were transfixed by the digging men, who had hit the roots of a linden tree that had dared creep beyond the Arboretum gate. Two of them hacked at the roots in their path, iron weapons swinging, while the others laid down cables in the ground. Grit assumed they connected to the streetlamp outside the gate, but she wasn’t sure. She wished Carmer were there to explain it to her.
Grit couldn’t blame Queen Ombrienne and the faerie warriors for not going on the offensive against Archer, especially with their power so much weaker outside the kingdom’s boundaries. The humans of Skemantis and the faeries of Oldtown Arboretum had left each other alone for over a century. No matter what expansion went on outside its gates, the Arboretum itself was a sacred place for humans to enjoy and faeries to live in peace. But now, the magic under Archer’s control outside the Arboretum rivaled that on the inside. The old peace was being broken, and the humans were practically cheering it on.
“There’s something strange about that man, Grit.” Bressel shivered. Even a garden faerie, unaccustomed to thinking much about the magic outside her own vegetable patch, could sense Titus Archer’s terrifying power.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Grit agreed.
More men were filling in the trench now, the mounds of churned earth like fresh scars covering a wound.
“It’s dying,” Bressel whispered, her eyes filling with amber tears as she looked at the linden.
Grit didn’t question her friend’s prognosis; she too could almost hear the tree’s plaintive cries. “I can’t believe this.”
Someone finished screwing a shiny new bulb into the nearest streetlamp and carefully placed the original glass globe over it.
“It is time!” said Archer, consulting his watch. He clapped his hands together and all the men stepped back. A zipping, crackling sound filled the air for a few seconds, and then there was a burst of light. The entire theater district was now officially electric. Dark back alleyways were illuminated, bright signs broadcasting each theater and hotel’s name attached to the tops of every building. The crowd
applauded, and people in the streets jumped back in surprise as the city came to life around them.
“There you have it, my friends! Hyperiopower in action!” crowed Titus Archer.
The scribbling journalists peppered him with questions.
“But how does it work?”
“When will the whole city be wired?”
“How soon before we see this technology in the homes of the average Skemantian?”
Grit climbed as high as she dared in the holly tree, Bressel flying branch to branch behind her. She looked out into the newfangled theater district. How hadn’t she realized Archer’s plans were this far along?
The Symposium had only been a place to show off, just like Archer had told Carmer. It seemed the real testing ground was expanding by the day, and Grit had no idea how to stop it.
Despite his incredibly fae-filled existence the last few days, Felix Carmer had never actually been to Oldtown Arboretum, the very center of faerie life in Skemantis. He made his way to the South Gate now for no other reason than he had nowhere else to go. He’d wandered around the city all afternoon, from the gleaming towers of the financial district to the smelly stalls of the leather workers, to the Penny Market and back again, like any tourist taking in the sights, all the while carefully skirting the place he knew was Grit’s home. Whether or not she was there, he doubted the rest of the faeries would be pleased with him.
Few people milled about the Arboretum tonight. The lamps along the paths, which Grit had told him were usually illuminated by faerie light, were dark and empty, leaving only the moon to guide the way. Looking to the north, he thought of the newly electrified theater district humming with its artificial glow. Carmer and Grit hadn’t guessed the Mechanist had developed his dynamo to such an extent. Where once he would have watched the new display of lights with gleeful curiosity, now Carmer felt only sadness and a nagging sense of regret. He could only hope Grit had made it back to her people in one piece. After giving up life as he knew it, a little hope was all he had.
Carmer arrived at the South Gate, where the stone gargoyles perched on either side seemed to judge him. Carmer figured they’d found him lacking, but the double gates swung open at his touch. He looked around but saw no one.
Carmer wasn’t sure where he was going, or even why he was there, but as he walked along an oak-lined path, he noticed the ground start to slope upward. He’d chanced upon a map of the Arboretum earlier at the visitor’s center in the old brick City Hall building, so he recognized the area as the beginnings of Widdershinner’s Hill, one of the highest points in the city. Perhaps from there he could see how far Titus Archer’s electrical system actually extended.
The wind picked up as Carmer walked. He drew his threadbare coat more tightly around his shoulders and clamped a hand on his top hat when a particularly stiff breeze tried to make away with it. He felt a surprising pang of loneliness when his hand brushed the little door built into its side. There was no need for that anymore.
Was it just his imagination, or was the hill getting steeper? With each step, the ground seemed to shift from under him, throwing him off balance and making his thighs burn with the effort. The gnarled, winding limbs of the oaks snaked in and out of one another in an arch overhead, letting only the barest hints of moonlight leak through. It cast trickster shadows along the oak’s trunks; one moment, the silhouette of a little girl flickered against it. The next, a knobby, ancient face peered at him, mouth open wide in a scream echoed in the whistling, whirling wind. The Oldtown Arboretum was on the defensive.
Still Carmer pressed on. He could not say why it was so important now that he reach the top of the hill, but it was. No matter how fiercely the wind blew, how much the slick leaves and damp soil squelched underfoot and tried to pull the shoes from his feet, how the mean old trees threw acorns at him and whacked their branches in his face, he couldn’t stop now. Maybe Carmer couldn’t win the magic competition. He couldn’t keep his family together. He couldn’t make his first real friend without ruining everything the first chance he got. He couldn’t save the faeries and he couldn’t stop Titus Archer. But Carmer could keep walking.
The Great Willow is very clever, as you know, and more than capable of making her own decisions. Even if Queen Ombrienne, in all her wisdom of many years, had ordered the Arboretum to close itself to outsiders until further notice, the Great Willow was older and wiser still. And we can suppose that even if the statues guarding the Arboretum found Carmer’s gumption lacking, the Great Willow did not, for she chose that moment to knock Felix Carmer’s prized top hat right off his head.
“No!” cried Carmer as the hat spun away. He jumped up to grab it, caught his toe on a tree root, and fell flat on his face.
The howling wind quieted. The rogue roots shrunk back, a little embarrassed at their behavior. The oaken limbs retracted to their normal size, and the gnarled faces in their trunks had the decency to look sheepish. The moon burst through the clouds, flooding the path with light.
Carmer slowly got to his knees. His brain felt a little scrambled, but other than a few scrapes, he was unhurt. He was also at the top of the hill.
His hat was waiting for him, thoroughly enjoying its ride atop a little dust devil still swirling in harmless, lazy circles. Carmer spared a quick moment to glance at the city sprawled below him, a sizeable portion of it glowing and blinking against the night sky, but his victory was short-lived. He spotted his hat and made a grab for it, but it danced just out of reach, whirling down the other side of the hill.
“Hey, wait!” Carmer yelled, realizing a little too late that he was yelling at a hat. As arduous as his ascent of the hill had been, his descent was over in a matter of seconds. The path was so clear and steep he couldn’t have stopped running even if he’d wanted to. He careened down it, arms and legs flailing, his errant hat bobbing just out of reach. He had just a few seconds to dig in his heels before he crashed into a crumbling stone wall with a sound somewhere between a thump and a crunch.
“Unfhgmuh,” or something like it, was the only sound Carmer could make. His hands had borne the brunt of the impact, and some of the scabs from the Autocat’s claws had opened again. They left faint red smears on the gray stone in front of him. He pushed himself back and sank to the ground against the wall.
The top hat floated down and gently placed itself around Carmer’s ears. He almost laughed.
Carmer took a few moments to catch his breath, leaning against the cool stone. Here and there, little rolls of paper, parchment, and even old newsprint stuck out from between the holes in the wall. Carmer traced the edges of one with his fingers, but didn’t pull it out. It wasn’t his place.
“I read about these today,” Carmer said softly to the cool night air. “Some people believe that if you come to the Whispering Wall and whisper your deepest secret, the faeries will grant you a wish in return. This wall would have fallen down ages ago if not for all the wishes written down and slipped in the cracks.” He pushed one of the notes in more snugly and looked up at the stars. “I don’t know any secrets worth the kind of wishes I have,” he said. “But . . . I do have an apology. To one of you in particular, but to all of you, really. I’m sorry I didn’t do more. I’m sorry if what I tried to do was too much.”
The wind whistling through the cracks in the wall was his only answer. Carmer hadn’t really been expecting one, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. A little hope was all he had, but it was getting smaller all the time.
“HOOT!”
A tiny gray mass of feathers came flying out of nowhere, sweeping so close over Carmer’s head it nearly yanked out some of his hair with its talons.
“DUSTEN, THIS IS NOT WHAT WE PRACTICED.”
Carmer would recognize that voice anywhere. He ducked just in time as the owl dove again, this time making an unsteady landing on top of the Whispering Wall, dislodging a few pebbles in the process.
“HOOT,” it declared proudly, seemingly ignorant of the two disheveled-looking
faeries clinging to its back. Grit clutched the owl’s reins while a green-skinned faerie with hair like broccoli florets clutched at her.
“Bressel, you’re squeezing the light out of me,” complained Grit. She extricated herself from her terrified companion’s grip and hopped down from the owl’s back.
Bressel made a far less graceful descent and quickly ducked behind the creature, her bulbous green eyes peering at Carmer curiously.
“You’re okay,” said Carmer, relieved.
“You look terrible,” said Grit, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a reluctant smile.
“I had a fight with your Arboretum. I think I lost.”
Grit shook her head. “If you did, you’d know.”
An awkward silence fell between them.
“Grit, we need to go right now!” Bressel piped up. “The Arboretum is on lockdown—”
“And it let Carmer in anyway. I’d say that’s a good sign. Felix Cassius Tiberius Carmer III, meet Bressel, Junior Sprout Mother in Training and Professional Worrywart. Bressel, Carmer.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Carmer, tipping his hat.
Bressel blushed dark green, and a small white flower blossomed in her hair of its own accord; she hid even farther behind the owl. Carmer couldn’t help but feel like his first meetings with faeries were never destined to go well.
Bressel hissed warnings at Grit with her face in Dusten’s feathers. “I never signed up for revealing myself to this boy, Grettifrida—“
“BRESSEL.”
“Grettifrida?” Carmer asked with a smirk.
“It’s Grit.” Grit brandished her hatpin. “And I will use this.”
Carmer nodded quickly and Grit sheathed her sword. She sat down on the wall and scooted closer to him.
The Wingsnatchers Page 16
